One last swindle, by Sherlock and Irene
by fabouluz122
Summary: Sherlock and Irene rob a drug dealers home, and Irene witnesses the great Sherlock Holmes' achille's heel for the first time, addiction.


London, 2011, Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler are joining forces for the first time, to swindle a drug dealer known to the Scotland Yard out of a batch of un-cut heroin, an addicts dream. Irene merely wanted to sell it herself and then abandon London for somewhere far away, but she had not revealed to Sherlock the second part of her plan. She had based her career amongst criminals with high secrecy even amongst her newly found ally, whom she had admired from a great distance for some time.

'I need my fix.' Sherlock danced on the spot, full of agitation, as Irene used the only pair of steady hands between them to pick the lock of a Kensington home in the dead of night. They knew from Sherlock's snooping in Scotland Yard that the drug king pin would be away on business for one night, this night.

'Hold on, got it.' A mechanical clicking noise caused Irene to smirk and then turn the gold door knob with her gloved hand.

'Get in.' She pushed Sherlock inside, as he had begun to grow more antsy and a burden for Irene who was desperate not to get caught, as this would ensure a prison sentence—locked in a cage, something she feared gravely more than death.

'It's behind the large Matisse painting.' She got Sherlock to hold the painting delicately a couple of feet away from the wall, so she could open the hidden safe. Inside was big, and deep, filled with everything from diamonds and sapphires, to precious love letters from his mistress.

'This is it.' She lifted a velvet cloth from on top of a heavy brick of white powder. Pure opium from the mountains of Afghanistan, she carefully removed it before locking the safe again. Sherlock dropped the painting harshly against the wall, garnering a slap from Irene.

'Was not necessary.' Her stated as he rubbed his left cheek in pain.

'Feel it. Tell me it's real.' She handed him the densely packed plastic wrapped bundle of heroin. Sherlock merely had to touch it and smell it deeply to determine it was his beloved heroin.

'I need to cook, now.' He bit his finger nails and grinned manically.

'Shall we go back to my flat?' Irene asked sheepishly, obviously not wanting to take a dangerous addict back to her Mayfair flat.

'No. I need to do it at my home in Marylebone.' They bounced out of the property, and left the home undisturbed like it was before their arrival.

The 30 minute ride on the tube was painful for Irene, as she kept looking over her shoulder trying not to allow Sherlock's withdrawal symptoms to rouse any attention from the few late night stragglers inside the train.

Arriving just in time before Sherlock passed out in crippling pain, Irene followed Sherlock's direct orders as he propped himself on the chair against the small kitchen table. She laid out his crooked spoon, freshly stolen hospital needle and an aged worn brown leather belt.

'I can't tie the belt.' He strained, as he began to tremble.

'Please.' He looked up at Irene, who took off her gloves and removed her long black trench coat. With small hesitation, she wrapped the belt around his muscular tattooed arm that covered most of his old track marks, until the blood drained from his elbow to his fingers. Irene looked through the kitchen draws and found a sharp knife; she stabbed the heroin package and lifted the snow white powder onto the edge of the blade and pouring it slowly onto the spoon along with some vinegar from the condiments in the centre. Mixing it furiously, she then began to cook it with a lighter procured from between her breasts, until it bubbled and changed colour.

Irene stopped, and looked at Sherlock whose eyes were rolling around, and his face felt cold to the back of her hand. She used the needle to suck up the contents of the spoon, and stuck the needle into a vein she could find on his right hand. Slowly, and carefully she pulled the plunger until the bright red blood collided with the heroin concoction. Then she pushed it into his vein.

Watching Sherlock flinch and then begin to return to a 'normal' state, she grabbed a kitchen towel and began to wipe the cold beads of sweat from his forehead and neck.

'Sherlock, please stay awake.' She begged with as little emotion she could find, still not willing to express herself to anyone.

'I'm—fine.' He murmured before he broke into a faint smile, his eyes rolling back into his head, and all the muscles in his body relaxing until he was as heavy as a dead body sat at a kitchen table.

'Are you sure?' Irene asked, as she took the seat beside him. She had never succumbed to addiction in her time with the underworld, it had always been about the money and that was how she got her 'high' along with blackmail and sweet talking rich folk into looking after her between scams. Seeing Sherlock like this, after following him from a distance for some time, she had always thought he was a held together genius with no Achilles heel. Now she knew him through and through, she couldn't help but feel something for him, more than admiration.

'Sherlock?' She was scared about having a dead body to take care of come morning, so she placed his head on the kitchen table, then she folded the kitchen cloth and placed it below the side of his face. This was too hard to witness, so she began to split the heroin herself into a separate bag she had brought with her, along with black tape from another drawer in Sherlock's kitchen.

Before Irene left with her share, she looked down at Sherlock, and placed an ear to his open mouth on the table, and listened to him breathing softly, warm like a cashmere blanket.

'Good night, Sherlock Holmes. We may never meet again, but I hope we will.' She kissed him on the cheek and then departed 221b, Baker Street.


End file.
